"Bad girl." Almost an admonishing tone, tenderly scolding. Then the pop of the silenced bullet, and nothing else.
They had an audible record of Merilyn Lankford's murder. If they could get an ID-when they got an ID-they'd be able to match voiceprints and put him at the scene.
"Bingo," Leif said cheerfully.
"My dear, if you don't mind my saying so, you look as if you're at the end of your rope," Mr. Densmore said gently. "You've been through an extraordinarily difficult experience. Lightning won't strike if you sit down and have another cup of tea, will it? Tea is a wonderful restorative. I'll brew a fresh pot," he offered.
She needed something to eat more than she needed tea, Sarah realized belatedly, trying to think when she had last eaten anything. It had to have been the soup she'd had with Mr. Densmore late yesterday afternoon, making it more than twentyfour hours since she'd had a meal.
She had just served his dinner. Mr. Densmore's cook came in at three and prepared his evening meal; she had already come and gone by the time Sarah arrived. Obviously she had prepared only for Mr. Densmore, but that didn't matter. As soon as Sarah had Mr. Densmore fed and his dishes cleared away, she would find something to eat.
He had hovered anxiously near her, making her uneasy, but now she realized he was afraid she might collapse. The thought broke through her depression and made her smile. "Mr. Densmore, has anyone ever told you how sweet you are?"
His eyes widened, and he blushed. "Oh . . . my-well, no."
Sweet and lonely; she felt sorry for him, but not enough to stay in this ghastly house and provide him the companionship he so obviously needed. Still, maybe the caffeine in the tea would give her a boost, keep her going until she had an opportunity to eat.
"Tea sounds wonderful," she said, and he beamed at her.
"Excellent! I know you'll feel a lot better."
He stood up from the table, and Sarah said hastily, "Please, finish your dinner first. I'll put on the tea."
"No, I'll do it. I'm very particular about my tea."
Since his tea appeared to be so important to him and his dinner was a cold one anyway, fresh chicken salad with pecans and red grapes-and because even if she didn't intend to take any pay for her stay here, this was his house and he was still the boss-she stopped protesting.
He went into the kitchen and put the water on to heat, then returned to the dining room and sat down at the enormous chrome-and-glass table to finish his meal. With nothing to do until he finished, Sarah retreated to a corner. She had seldom felt so useless as she did here; she got the impression he didn't expect her to do any actual work, just . . . be there. The respite she craved wasn't here; there wasn't any peace, any calm, just boredom and a vague sense of uneasiness.
She was so tired she could barely stand, and she had developed a raging headache, probably from not eating. It could also be caffeine deprivation, since she hadn't had her coffee that morning; if that was the case, the tea was doubly welcome. She might even have two cups.
He finished just as the kettle in the kitchen began whistling. "Ah! The water's ready," he said, just in case she couldn't hear that piercing noise. He strode into the kitchen, and Sarah busied herself collecting his dishes and carrying them through to rinse and put in the dishwasher.
By the time she finished with that and a few other odds and ends, he was pouring the steeped tea into the cups. '7here!" he said with satisfaction, carrying the tray through to the dining room. She was forced to follow him and, at his insistence, sit at the table.
"Tell me," he said as she sipped the hot, fragrant brew. "How did you decide to become a butler?"
She could talk about her work, she thought with relief. "My father was a colonel in the Marines," she said. "Growing up, I watched the stewards and how they handled all the functions, and it was fascinating. They knew protocol, they handled the guest lists, emergencies, they smoothed over any embarrassing moments . . . they're a marvel in action. I liked the way they were trained to handle anything."
"But obviously you weren't a steward in the military, were you?"
"Oh, no, there's actually a school where you train as a butler." He asked question after question, and she gratefully focused on answering him. Here at last was something her tired mind could latch on to, something that didn't require a lot of thought.
Maybe it was just the giddiness that comes with extreme fatigue, but she began to feel . . . almost tipsy. Her head swam suddenly, and she clutched at the table. 'Wow. Excuse me, Mr. Densmore. I'm dizzy all of a sudden. I haven't eaten today, and I think it's catching up with me."
He looked alarmed. "You haven't eaten? My dear, why didn't you say so? You shouldn't have been standing there waiting on me; you should be taking care of yourself. Here, you sit right there and I'll bring you something. What would you like?"
She blinked at him, owl-like. How could she tell him what she'd like when she didn't know what was available here? Anyway, she wouldn't "like" anything; she would eat because she needed to, but the last thing she had really wanted was- "Ice cream," she mumbled. The words were alarmingly hard to pronounce.
"Ice cream?" He paused, blinking at her in that way of his. "I don't believe I have any ice cream. Would you like anything else?"
"No," she said, trying to explain. "Not what I want. Last thing I . . ." She lost the thread of what she was saying and stared at him, bewildered. Everything was beginning to slowly rotate around her, and she had the vague, surprising idea that she might be about to faint. She had never fainted before.
He was beginning to move away from her, or seemed as if he was. She couldn't be certain, the way things were whirling. "Wait," she said, trying to stand up, but her legs buckled under her.
He rushed forward and grabbed her before she hit the floor, his grip surprisingly strong. "Don't worry," she heard him say as her vision faded and her ears began to feel as if cotton were stuffed in them. "I'll take care of you."
Chapter 29.
THE FIRST THING SHE BECAME AWARE OF WAS A HEADACHE, a literal throbbing inside her skull. Oh, that's right . . . she'd gone to bed with a headache. She was in an uncomfortable position, but she was afraid to move, afraid the least twitch would set the hammers to pounding even harder than they already were. She was queasy, too, and she thought she might vomit. Something was wrong, but the fuzziness in her brain kept her from figuring out what.
She tried to remember . . . something. Anything. For a sickening moment there was nothing there, no sense of place or time, just a horrifying lurch into the unknown. Then the texture of the fabric beneath her made sense, and she knew she was in bed. Yes, that made sense. She had a headache, and she was in bed. She remembered going . . . no, she didn't remember going to bed. The last clear memory was . . . but that eluded her, too, and she stopped fighting for it, letting the darkness and oblivion claim her again.
When next she woke, she thought she must have the flu. What else could account for this overwhelming sense of illness? She was seldom ill, even with the sniffles, but surely only something as serious as the flu could make her feel so sick. For the first time, she understood what people meant when they said they felt too sick to go to a doctor. There was no way she could get to a doctor; one would have to come to her.
Something was tugging on her head. It was a gentle, rhythmic tugging, and instead of making her headache worse, it actually soothed it, as if the sensation dulled her perception of the throbbing.
Her arms ached. She tried to move them and found she couldn't.
Alarm pierced through the fogginess in her brain. She tried again to move her arms, with the same lack of result. "My arms," she whimpered, and her voice sounded awful, so hoarse it was unrecognizable.
"Poor dear," a soft voice murmured. "You'll be all right. There, doesn't this feel good?"
The rhythmic tugging continued, slow and easy, and after a moment she realized someone was brushing her hair.
It did feel good, but she didn't want her hair brushed. She wanted to move her arms. Despite the headache, despite her queasy stomach, she shifted uneasily in the bed and found she couldn't move her legs, either.
Panic, hard and bright, made her eyes flare open. Her vision swam with fuzzy images that didn't quite make sense. There was a man . . . but he wasn't Cahill, and that wasn't possible. Why was a man who wasn't Cahill brushing her hair?
"I'll get you some water," the soft voice crooned. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, dear? Nice, cold water will feel so good on your throat. You've been asleep for such a long time I've been worried about you."
A cool hand slipped behind her neck and lifted her head, and a glass was put against her lips. The cold water hit her mouth in a rush, soaking into parched tissues, loosening her tongue from the roof of her mouth. Her stomach heaved as she swallowed, but thank God she didn't vomit. She swallowed again, then again, before the glass was taken away.
"Not too much, dear. You've been very sick."
She was still very sick if she was paralyzed, but maybe this man didn't know she couldn't move. She closed her eyes, fighting for strength, but, dear God, she didn't have any. She was so weak that she felt almost boneless.
"I'll bring you some soup in a little while. You need to eat something. I didn't realize you hadn't eaten, and I'm afraid I accidentally made you ill."
The softness of the voice clicked, and memory crept back. "Mr. Densmore?"
"Yes, dear, I'm right here."
"I feel so sick," she whispered, opening her eyes and blinking. This time she found her vision had cleared a little, and she could plainly see his face, full of concern.
"I know, and I'm sorry for that."
"I can't move."
"Of course not. I couldn't have you hurting yourself, now could I?"
"H-hurting myself?" She was winning the battle against the fog; with every passing second she felt less confused, more aware of her surroundings. She felt as if she were surfacing from anesthesia, which she remembered well from when she broke her left arm when she was six years old, and she'd been put under general anesthesia when it was set. She'd hated the anesthesia a lot more than she'd hated the cast.
"If you tried to leave," Mr. Densmore explained, but that didn't make any sense.
"I can't. I haven't." Tried to leave? She had tried to get up from the table, and that was the last thing she remembered.
"I know, I know. Don't get upset. Just stay calm, and everything will be all right." The brush moved slowly through her hair. "You have such lovely hair, Sarah. Overall I'm very pleased with you, though your indecisiveness was an unpleasant surprise. Still, you've been through a lot of upset. I'm sure you'll settle down with time."
He wasn't making any sense. Settle down? She frowned, her brow wrinkling, and he smoothed the creases with his fingertip. "Don't frown, you'll wrinkle your pretty skin. I was right about how lovely a ruby would look against your skin. But I've looked all through your things, and I can't find the pendant. Why aren't you wearing it?"
Pendant?
A chill ran through her, and she went very still as an awful suspicion seized her. Her stomach heaved again, but this time with fear.
'Why aren't you wearing the pendant I sent to you?" he asked, sounding a little petulant.
He was the one. He was the stalker, the weirdo whose presence she'd sensed, like a hidden cancer. He'd waited, and seized his chance. She wasn't sick at all, she realized; the bastard had drugged her, and since she hadn't eaten anything in over a day, the drug had hit her hard.
She had to answer him. Don't annoy him, she thought. Don't do anything to make him wary. Think. She needed an excuse that wasn't her fault. Think! "Allergic," she whispered.
The brush paused in its motion. "My dear, I'm so sorry," he said contritely. "I had no idea. Of course you shouldn't wear something that will give you a rash. But where is it? Perhaps you could put it on for just a moment, so I could see you wearing it."
"Jewelry box," she whispered. "Could I have more water?"
"Of course, dear, since the first has stayed down." He lifted her head and held the glass to her lips again, and she gulped as much as she could. "There," he said as he let her head rest on the pillow again. 'Where's your jewelry box?"
"At the bungalow. Lankford estate. Crime scene . . . police have it sealed. I can't get in."
He made an exasperated noise. "I should have realized. Don't worry, dear, I'll take care of collecting the rest of your things. You'll feel so much more comfortable with your own possessions around you."
Sarah tried once again to move her arms, and this time she felt something wrapped around her wrists. The truth occurred to her in a sickening rush: she was tied to the bed. She fought the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She couldn't give in to it, she had to think, she had to concentrate. If she panicked she was helpless, but if she kept her wits, she might outsmart him.
She had one big advantage: she knew he was dangerous, but he didn't know she was.
Cahill. He knew she was here. Sooner or later he would call and want to see her, talk to her. All she had to do was keep things calm and under control until then. She didn't want to do anything to agitate Densmore, prod him into violence. He was a stalker, obsessed with her; he was happy now because she was here, under his control. So long as he believed that, she was safe. She hoped she was safe. But if he thought she was trying to escape from him, he was likely to explode into violence. If that happened, if she couldn't make a clean escape, then she had to make certain she was ready to handle him.
But there was no telling how long it would take Cahill to try to contact her. He knew she was here, but all the cops were working almost around the clock trying to find the killer. He would try her cell phone first, and if she didn't answer, he would try again later. "Later," however, could be days later.
No, Cahill wouldn't wait that long. He was too tenacious.
But in the meantime she had to help herself. The first order of business was to convince Densmore to untie her.
She made her voice weaker than it truly was. If he wanted her sweet and helpless, she'd give him sweet and helpless, at least until she could kick his ass. "Mr. Densmore?"
"Yes, dear?"
"I . . . I'm so embarrassed to say this."
"You don't have to be embarrassed about anything. I'm here to take care of you."
"I need to use the bathroom," she whispered, and she had the benefit of that being so true she was on the verge of really embarrassing herself. Add in the fact that she was having her menstrual period, and the situation was not good.
"Dear me. That does present a problem."
"I-I think I'm paralyzed," she said, and let her voice wobble. It was better that he thought she was more incapacitated than she really was. Not that she would be able to fight or run even if she was untied, at this point, but she wanted him to think she was recovering very slowly.
"Of course you aren't," he exclaimed, his voice warm with sympathy. "I just used restraints to keep you from harming yourself. Now, let me see, how can we work this?"
She squirmed a little; her distress was becoming so acute that it was no problem to let a tear leak out of her eye. She needed to see if she could walk, or if too much of the drug he'd given her was still in her system.
"Yes, that will work, " he murmured to himself, and folded back the covers. To her immense relief she saw that she was still wearing her clothes; he'd removed her shoes, but that was all. He worked diligently, untying her ankles and then refashioning the thin, woven nylon restraints into a sort of hobble, with an extra length attached to it and held in his hand. If she could walk at all, it would be in very short steps, and if she tried anything, all he had to do was jerk the rope in his hand and she'd fall flat on her face.
She was truly crying by the time he got all that worked out and began releasing her hands.
"I'm sorry, I know you have to be miserable," he crooned. "Just a few more minutes, and I'll help you to the bathroom."
"Please hurry," she croaked, squeezing her eyes shut.
At last he was helping her to sit up, and she saw immediately that even if she were untied, she wouldn't be able to accomplish much. Better to do nothing to arouse his suspicions this time, and wait until she was in better shape. She had to remember that he was stronger than he looked, if he'd managed to get her upstairs all by himself. Unconscious people, since they were totally limp, were a bitch to move.
She was so woozy that she could barely sit up; in fact, she couldn't, not without help, and she leaned heavily into him. It turned her stomach to touch him, but she had to concentrate on allaying his suspicions, and if that meant accepting his help, she'd grit her teeth and do it.
He got her on her feet. Her knees immediately buckled, and he was supporting her entire weight. She clung to him as he half walked, half dragged her, to the big gray marble bathroom that was part of her quarters.
All of her toiletries were set out on the vanity; since he'd unpacked for her, she hoped her personal supplies were in the vanity drawers. Yes, there was the bag she had packed everything in, sitting on a shelf; even if he'd left the tampons in the bag, she could get to them.
He eased her over to the toilet, and stood there a moment looking uncomfortable. "Er . . . do you need any help?"
She braced her hand against the wall, panting. "I think I can manage." He should feel safe leaving her in here; there was a window, but it was glass block; she couldn't see out, no one could see in, and it didn't open. Even if she could break it out, the room he'd given her was on the second floor; the first floor in this house, she'd noticed, had what appeared to be sixteen-foot ceilings, so the drop would be much higher than from the ordinary second-story window.
She'd risk it, though, if that turned out to be her only chance.
He looked around, and she could see him mentally cataloging the contents of the room to see if there was anything she could use as a weapon or to escape. He was very careful, and he didn't trust her. She leaned heavily against the wall, underscoring her weakness.
"All right," he finally said. "I'll be right outside if you need me. "
"Could you leave the door open a little?" she asked. "Please? So you can hear me in case I fall." Talk about reverse psychology, asking him to do the very thing he intended to do anyway; perhaps that would convince him she wasn't making a break for it.
He looked pleased and gave her his shy smile as he left the bathroom and pulled the door half-closed. That was all the privacy she was going to get, but at this point she didn't give a damn.
The relief was almost painful, and those damn weak tears leaked down her face again. She found the box of tampons in the bottom vanity drawer and took care of that problem, too. Feeling much better and not nearly as desperate, but still very weak, she hobbled to the sink and leaned against it while she wet a washcloth and washed her face and private areas. If he peeped, then he peeped; she didn't give a damn. She needed to freshen up more than she needed to worry about her modesty.